Time's Wits
by Axolotl33
Summary: A narrative detailing Paris' secret life. Just something I wrote for school and sorta liked. Read if it bothers you that "Friar" is spelled wrong!
1. Prologue

That summer, the bluebirds and flowers did little to improve my mood. In fact, they made it worse; cheer seemed abundant in supply for everyone except me. I felt only a bitter jealousy; it ripened at the sight of happy couples, reveling under the blue sky together.

Silvia seemed all too happy to give up, despite the dainty tears that ran down her cheeks every time we spoke of my fast-approaching marriage. But I was immensely dissatisfied when Uncle Escalus reminded me that I was to be dressed and clean by noon for my appointment with the Lord Capulet.


	2. Act One

My uncle's advice replayed over and over in my head: Be both direct and polite. Compliments are your best weapon. The coach arrived all too soon; even a glance at the beautifully kept house made it clear that this was not a family to be messed with. It reminded me of the first time I had seen Silvia's residence, and that had turned out wonderfully, hadn't it? After shoving open the carriage door, I laid feet on the ground gingerly; tiny raindrops landed on my tunic. Only my personal attendant, Horatio, followed.

The path to Capulet manor was slick; so slick, in fact, that I arrived at the entrance with several dirt stains and a throbbing bruise, one that would cause Silvia to gasp with horror. A maid opened the door so promptly that I believe she had been watching me the whole time. She offered to take my coat, which I handed over.

After several awkward minutes in the front parlor, pretending to be fascinated by the sofa upon which I sat (Horatio wasn't a talkative one), a manservant came to escort me to the Lord Capulet's study. Horatio began to follow, but was told that the Lord Capulet had given strict instructions that only I was to meet him.

The lord's study was not a working quarters so much as a room to brag about in conversation. Portraits of each Capulet head of house were displayed proudly in gold frames. The current lord wore an expression so serious and fatherly that it seemed to mock him as he was sitting before me: eyes scanning my body, trying to find some fault in my construction. He gestured to a chair pushed to the side of the room. The wood, in comparison to the chairs at home, was rough and painful to sit on.

"Leave us." With a nod, the manservant departed. "A remarkable feat: only ten minutes past the agreed hour. I pray it was not exhaustive to travel at such an early hour?" His gibe stings: the accursed ten minutes were spent sitting in the front parlor awaiting his call. Silvia's voice guides me: Yes, you are angry, but don't let that show. Be clever in your retaliation. I merely nod. "The hour was not early; preparation was the culprit. I assure you, I meant not to steal time from your later appointments."

I knew all too well that Lord Capulet had no later visitors— over a century ago, his family had been pushed aside when the sovereigns had begun to favor the Montagues. Capulets had lost all esteem when a kinsmen had slain a good friend of the king; monarchs had remained, well, distant from the Capulets ever since. Like Silvia had been to me ever since the name "Juliet" had escaped my uncle's lips. But back to the Capulets— all esteemed families had shunned them ever since, not wanting to become outcasts as well. And the worst part? It was a Montague who had identified the killer.

Our conversation eventually moved to the feud. Capulet vivaciously defended his family: The Montagues, robbing us of our pride, humiliating us in court. We had done nothing to deserve the torment inflicted on us. But he begins to take a peaceful approach: The torment stopped a hundred-years ago; it is my duty to hate the Montagues, but little more than that. I soon grow tired of the lord: he's fickle as the wind, as fickle as Silvia, actually. I try to redirect the conversation. "But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?"

The lord Capulet informs me that his daughter is too young, too innocent, his only pride and joy. I only counter his arguments weakly: better to be unintelligent than separated from my one true love. And so two more years are secured: two more happy years with Silvia.


	3. Act Two

The Capulets' feast was not all I had hoped it to be. Finding myself too nervous to approach Juliet, I sat in a corner of the courtyard looking at the stars. I had decided to name each and every one of them before daring speak to Juliet. It was something Silvia had showed me: Upon finding yourself in a tedious situation, name your surroundings. I had learned one evening function, when I was talking with a few companions. I had been cruelly ignoring Silvia, who sat on a marble bench scanning the cobblestones. All of a sudden, she began muttering names. One of my black-hearted companions had whispered to us, "She be mad." They had all begun laughing, and poor perceptive Silvia's cheeks turned red.

The situation called for a witty retaliation, but all I could think of was, "Nay, she be enigmatic." I would be lying if I said that they all gasped and walked away with shame in their eyes. The first speaker looked at me as if I was mad, and they all strode away with a few "ah, yes, the eloquent one"s. And by the laughs that bubbled up as they left, I could tell that I was being criticized. Silvia, on the other hand, looked terribly ashamed. Upon questioning her, I learned that she had been christening the cobblestones with her mutterings.

That is what I did then, except with objects so high up I couldn't even mentally reach them. And this time, there were no disloyal friends to whom I at least could politely converse with. There were only golden tunics and pearls, not the small kind that Silvia used to wear, but big pearls that weighed their wearers down so that they walked around like turtles. Adrian. Marina. Francis. I spotted a pair of stars, one barely visible and the other shining obliviously. It was too fixed on the fainter one to watch its audience.


	4. Act Three

Word of the duel spread through Verona like wildfire. And in the house of Capulet, which I visited every other day now, they talked of the matter nonstop. Two slain and one banished. Verona was not a quiet town by any means, but that tidbit seemed to surpass all other gossip. I wished myself back home, where nothing happened but, at the same time, everything did.

And Silvia was only a few manors away from mine— she was not from a tremendously wealthy family, but at least she was a lady. I wished that she was with me every second of every day. Until I received the letter.


	5. Act Four (Part One)

Silvia had died of wasting disease. She'd been diagnosed a few weeks after I'd first met her. Of course, I hadn't known this until I got the letter from her parents. I hadn't been there. It was together until the end, and I _hadn't been there for her. _Things had gotten really bad, but she'd been strong enough to hide it. But she had known the end was coming. Everyone close to her had known.

I hadn't known. I hadn't even guessed. I had _let her die._ But, of course, I was supposed to be infatuated with Juliet now, having left my childhood love behind. I wondered if this was how Silvia had felt— alone, afraid, hopeless.

Juliet was my sole distraction. After another plea, the Lord Capulet moved the wedding to Thursday; the strain of Tybalt's death was proving trying for him. I began to choose a tunic and ring. I could start over. I _could_. But now, there would never be another Silvia. But I _had _to. I decided to pay Friar Lawrence a visit.

Friar Lawrence was all too happy to see me— the chair he presented to me was comfortable, with frayed padding on its seat. As I spoke, he nodded. I didn't tell him of Silvia, of course, but I did tell him that I was desperate to woo Juliet but simply didn't have the means. I didn't know how to please her. The good man naturally discouraged this; a husband must know his wife like a sister; Juliet still remained indifferent; few days remained in which to woo her; I shouldn't prepare myself for a smooth marriage.

Juliet arrived during this dialogue, captivating us without saying a word. "Happily met, my lady and wife." She must sense some mockery in my voice, for it is eyes of ice that meet mine. "That _may _be, sir, when I _may be_ a wife," she replies in the sort of tone that would make Silvia gasp and shrink away. I cannot remember responding, but I do remember how, as we conversed, her tone softened to butter. She became almost maternal, reassuring my increasingly desperate phrases with calm, loving phrases of her own.

Finally Juliet turned to the Friar: "Are you at leisure, holy father, now, or shall I come to you at evening Mass?" Even I recognized the necessary retreat and bidded _adieu _to Juliet and the Friar, stepping out into the crisp morning air.

The day smelled of beauty, but all of that was lost on me. The day would never be as beautiful as Silvia. _Nay_, not as beautiful as _Juliet's_. But I knew, in my heart of hearts, that Juliet's face would never compare. Silvia, though departed from this earth, would reign for eternity.


	6. Act Four (Part Two)

I now realize that, possibly all along, I had been eager to marry. This rite of passage, relayed to me by companions who had gone through it, earned one respect from the whole community. And respect was something I had only in small quantities. I imagined a life with Juliet— such a quiet, analytical woman. Silvia was always talking, even when no one was there to listen. Silvia's silence was especially talkative— it seemed to draw everyone to her. But Juliet seems to camouflage with her environment, her words too meaningless to be remembered.


	7. Act Four (Part Three)

I tried on my tunic— a perfect fit. If only Silvia were there to see me, she would have gasped in delight. I hoped that she had plenty of distractions up in Heaven. She was up there, I was sure of it. And that day, I learned that Juliet had gone up to join her. All of the preparations were called off; my beautiful tunic was discarded, a black garment put in its place. And I watched from my window as Uncle Escalus shooed off friends of the family, bringing ample consolation but sent away with mild apologies.

Uncle Escalus eventually retired, leaving a servant in his place. I remained on my windowsill, looking at the stars. The pair was there— the timid one looking rather depressed, the brighter one trying to tell him that it would be okay, everything would be okay. "I'm sorry," I whisper to the brighter one, "I'm so sorry."


End file.
